


a still motion picture

by crownedmayhem



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Background Sunaosa, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Mentioned sakuatsu, hurt/not much comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26786689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedmayhem/pseuds/crownedmayhem
Summary: It’s only a matter of days, now.He knows that as he watches Atsumu die—as he’s been watching him die ever since the infection—he is dying too, and one Miya without the other is no Miya at all.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu
Comments: 26
Kudos: 114
Collections: Miya Twins Week 2020





	a still motion picture

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for 'apocalypse au' from day 3 of miya twins week,,, but that was uhhhhh,,,,,,,, oops  
> i'm sorry this is so very late im just asdfkjhjsdkf

“Where’s Sakusa?” Suna asks, having come back from going around their new base. Osamu’s just walked out for some air and he slumps on a nearby oil drum, dragging a hand through his hair.

“No clue,” he exhales, weary and exhausted. He’d only just redressed Atsumu’s wound and got him to sleep. “He stormed off after he found out Atsumu got hurt.”

Suna hums noncommittally, but Osamu notes how he sweeps their surroundings twice over with his gaze, despite having just patrolled. “Don’t know what Atsumu expected, hiding it from him in the first place.”

“Yeah,” Osamu says. He doesn’t understand his brother either, but alas, they have to deal with the fallout of his problems. Leader of their little group _where_ exactly? “We’ll have to look for him soon.”

Suna glances towards the small house they’d found. “We’re already down a man."

“Ya say that like we aren’t just four guys anyway.”

Suna seems to think it over. “Fair,” he says. “I’ll look for him.” He scans over Osamu. “You look ready to collapse.”

“Gee, thanks, Sunarin,” he drawls, but Suna’s not wrong. After a second or two of contemplation, he adds, “You stay safe, all right?” 

It doesn’t need to be said—goes without saying even—but Osamu feels compelled to say it anyway. The look Suna throws him in reply is knowing, and Osamu gives him a small smile.

Suna nods his goodbye, boots heavy on the compact dirt as he turns and leaves, and Osamu stays outside to enjoy the fresh air a moment longer. They’d cleared out the house of their new base as best they could, Sakusa being more insistent on it than usual, but even so, inside still felt hard to breathe in.

When he finally walks back into the house, it’s only slightly less stifling than before. Unfortunately, beggars can’t be choosers, so Osamu puts it out of his mind and enters the bedroom, reminding himself to simply be glad to have a place to rest that isn’t a moss-covered slab.

He sees Atsumu cocooned in the duvet they’d dusted off and takes off his shoes to crawl on the bed beside him. Usually, Osamu liked sleeping next to Suna on whatever surface they found to inhabit at the time, but after the last couple of days, he thinks it’s normal to want to be closer to Atsumu for the time being. Like this, he can make sure Atsumu is safe, tucked underneath warm fabric and the gentle embrace of peace.

If anything wants to hurt Atsumu again, Osamu will be there. This time, he’ll make sure to protect his brother.

Watching the slow and steady rise and fall of Atsumu’s chest, Osamu begins to succumb to a light sleep. It’s only when he’s nearing the edge of unconsciousness that he feels the lump next to him shift. The movement is small, measured, and perhaps not as asleep as he’d thought. When he slips into a satisfied slumber, it’s with the ghost of a smile dancing on his face and his twin snuggled into his side.

* * *

The air is heavy and thick with autumn creeping up. Underfoot, he crushes thin leaves and notes how hard it’d be to conceal footsteps. The sun is starting to lower in the sky and blue is slowly sinking into orange and yellow. Osamu is thankful they aren’t far from camp.

He sees a familiar silhouette further up ahead and calls out, “The fuck are ya doin’ out here?” 

Atsumu doesn’t turn around immediately and Osamu holds his breath.

“Just wanted a bit of time to myself, I guess,'' comes his voice, a beat later. Osamu inaudibly sighs in relief.

“Fuckin’ tell someone, ya idiot,” he says, and the relief bleeds through his words anyway. He pads over to where Atsumu sits on a fallen log and doesn’t bother sitting. He has an inkling of why Atsumu came out here, why he had to leave to breathe. The reason makes Osamu’s lungs constrict and he inhales the piercing scent of petrichor under washed out trees.

“‘m sorry, ‘Samu,” Atsumu begins, and he exhales like the world is coming to a close in front of him. “Forgot the fuckin’ time.”

Osamu looks at his brother and is reminded of years in the past, when Atsumu lied more often. He hadn’t been better at it then, and he’d only gotten worse, but hearing him lie—somehow, it’s nostalgic in a way.

Out here, in the slowly fading heat of summer as the hardest months approach, where monsters linger in the light and the shadows equally, where frost begins to encroach upon every living and nonliving thing exposed to the elements, they don’t have room for people to lie.

But back then, what feels like decades ago, lying was simple. It could be harmless, easy—just a little white lie. Nobody got hurt, even if Osamu’s pudding was never replaced. Even if he never got his clothes back, or found out what happened to his dinosaur slippers when he and Atsumu were hardly past the age of ten. 

In all of those instances, Atsumu had lied and Osamu had grumbled and griped, but at the end of it all, it was just water under the bridge. Another item here or there would go missing, Atsumu would fumble with a half-assed lie, Osamu would wrap him in a headlock, they’d fight a bit, Osamu would win, Atsumu would complain, and all would be forgiven.

That’s how it went, and that’s how it’d always gone.

This, though—it’s different.

If Osamu digs deep enough in his memory, perhaps he can find one or two similar situations; Atsumu didn’t often lie like this. He’s confident, assured enough most of the time, and he has direction. He didn’t often feel—conscious. 

Certainly not enough for him to want to hide.

“Forgot the time, huh?” Osamu says. Maybe in a more peaceful era, years ago, when they could go to sleep in a permanent and safe home and wake up to a recognisable world, Osamu would’ve let it drop. Would’ve followed past precedent and let it go, because it wouldn’t have meant anything.

But it’s the present, and he hasn’t felt peace in a long time—when he wakes up in the morning, it’s with the ghost of a heart attack, wondering whether he’ll still be here, whether his friends will be, whether they’ll make it through tonight or tomorrow or if they really even made it through yesterday.

If things were easier, he could let it go.

“Why’d ya actually stay out here so late?”

He doesn’t expect Atsumu’s bitter laugh.

“Typical, ain’t it,” he says, rough. “After all this time, I still can’t lie for shit.” He pauses; breathes in. “Would you believe me”—he laughs again. This time it’s quieter, weaker, _ashamed_ —“if I told ya. That I don’t think—I don’t think I can physically walk back.”

“What?”

Atsumu’s hand isn’t steady when he ruffles through his own hair. His voice quivers. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Would ya believe it, ‘Samu?”

A breeze teeters on by, and Osamu feels like it takes the air from his lungs with it.

“I tried. But—I can’t.” Atsumu’s admission is hushed, muted under his breath, spoken to the wisps of wind that drift away.

Atsumu has always been self-sufficient; built on his own prowess, on his ferocious effort and dedication, the basis of his pride has always been his tenacity. He has always been unshakable.

Like this, his castle is crumbling, and Osamu is helpless to watch.

“‘Tsumu,” he says, and even to his own ears, he sounds small. This isn’t how things are supposed to go, but they don’t have a choice.

They didn’t have a choice when Atsumu’s wound didn’t improve and only seemed to get worse. There was no choice in seeing Atsumu’s injury develop into infection.

Neither of them were ready to accept it then, and seeing the physical effects now—Osamu feels his stomach drop.

“That all you’re gonna say?” Atsumu says, and he tries to go for a jab, tries to pretend this isn’t the beginning of the end. “Prime opportunity you’re missin’ to make fun of me here.”

Osamu feels simultaneously frozen in space and like he’s weightless, waiting for another rustle of the trees so he can follow the leaves in being carried away.

“Come on, Osamu,” Atsumu tries again. “It’s not that bad, right? Probably just… just a bad day.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself more than Osamu. He doesn’t sound so sure.

Osamu attempts to clear his thoughts and shakes his head, inhales sharply. Steps towards Atsumu—falters.

“Scared ya not strong enough to hold me up?”

“Shut up,” Osamu says, but it’s instinctive. He’s half snapped out of it, just enough to walk forwards and crouch down in front of Atsumu. “It’ll take too long if I just help ya waddle,” he explains. The words sound as though they’re spoken underwater, like he’s watching someone else talk, but when Atsumu clambers on, the weight he feels is very much real and physical.

Osamu hasn’t done this since—before high school. 

It wasn’t unusual then, to see them piggybacking each other, but that was before their growth spurts, when coordination was suddenly a much harder feat with their gangly limbs and extra height.

Now, it’s not as difficult, with years of being in their adult bodies. Even if maintaining muscle in an apocalypse isn’t as simple as hitting the gym and eating well, Osamu still manages to comfortably heft Atsumu onto his back. He doesn’t let himself attribute it to the way Atsumu feels lighter than he should.

Walking back, his legs feel heavier than normal and he knows it’s not just because he’s carrying Atsumu. Every step feels more damning than the last, and he readjusts his grip. Atsumu huffs a little with being jostled from where his head is pillowed on Osamu’s shoulder.

He’s like a sloth, Osamu thinks, languidly draped over him like this. The thought is peaceful, one unburdened by reality. It possesses a sense of calmness, lacking the calamity of what they’ll have to confront when they get back to base.

For now, Osamu will indulge in it. He will dream of a life where this isn’t the truth of their situation; where their food supplies aren’t in danger of running out even before the seasons change; where Atsumu is happy and healthy, bouncing around the streets they were raised on, free from sickness and pain; where Osamu can watch his brother give his heart to Sakusa Kiyoomi without the hesitancy that comes with living in a timeline where the undead exist; where Osamu can take Suna’s hand and ask him for a dance to more than just the imaginary music in their ears.

Until they make it back, Osamu will let the tranquility of a halcyon fantasy world swathe his troubled mind. With Atsumu’s presence tangible on his back, he’ll allow himself a moment to blink where he can pretend that in the split-second darkness, everything is okay.

When he sees the wash of red leaves and brown trees and grey skies again, the idylls will fade away, turning into hardly more than thin trails of torn spirits and broken faith, and Osamu will soldier on.

* * *

Suna’s hand is reassuring as he strokes his back, but Osamu can only focus on the visceral wrench of his gut. When he presses the palms of his hands into his eyes, his vision dots with spirals and multicolour splotches. It doesn’t ease the swirling storm in his stomach.

“I can’t, Rin,” he says under his breath. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“Do what?” Suna asks.

He looks up at Suna and he knows his eyes are red rimmed with prominent dark circles underneath, visible even with the low light from the fire. He feels haggard, worn down and crushed, and by the subtle softening of Suna’s expression, the slight downturn of his lips and the crease in his forehead, he knows it shows.

It’s only been a few days, but each passing hour feels more grievous than the last.

He looks at Suna, at his healthy skin and blinking eyes, at the hungering thinness of his body, how it’s still solid and firm and _alive_.

It’s a stark difference to what flashes in Osamu’s mind.

Even when he closes his eyes, the same scenes and images follow him. They haunt him constantly: bloodied lips and lungs coughed up; pale skin sheened with perspiration; uncoordinated hands shaking and trembling; listless eyes, unresponsive and inert, seeing nothing.

He can’t stop his voice from breaking when he whispers, “I can’t watch him die.”

* * *

“Where’d ya get that from?” Atsumu asks, scratchy and rough from having just woken up. He sits up and the covers drop from where they’d been up to his shoulders, revealing his bandages.

Osamu stirs the soup, staring at the spoon intently. The bowl is hot against his skin. “Found it somewhere,” he answers. 

Somehow, he hears the expression Atsumu makes in response and Osamu questions his own sanity.

“Call me a shit liar again and I’m gonna remind you of this,” Atsumu says.

Were Osamu a lesser man without decades of experience bearing the sharpness of Atsumu’s words, he’d cower. As it is, he sees the pettiness for what it is and simply replies, “You’re a worse liar, and I ain’t lyin’.”

The soup is thick, and Osamu hopes his feeble attempts at making it more palatable come through. There’s not much to be done with what they have, but Osamu didn’t drag himself through years of culinary school to end up making tasteless soup. Granted, considering the world situation, his years in culinary school don’t mean much now, but he’ll be sad if he thinks about it, so he doesn’t.

“You _are_ fuckin’ lyin’. Don’t tell me you went out extra just for this shit. I swear to fuck, what were you even thinkin’, ‘Samu?”

“Just shut up and wait for your fuckin’ soup,” Osamu snaps, fighting to keep the exhaustion from seeping into his voice.

There’s a lull in time where Osamu holds his breath, unsure if Atsumu is going to argue. Thankfully, Atsumu seems to listen to him for once and sinks down, mulish. “I can feed myself, y’know.”

Osamu gives him a look. “I didn’t make this shit so you could spill it all over yourself.”

“That’s just mean,” Atsumu huffs. He crosses his arms, but Osamu doesn’t need to look at them to know he can’t control the tremors.

“Here,” he says, lifting the spoon. Atsumu goes cross-eyed looking at it and Osamu sighs. “Ya want me to sing ‘here comes the airplane’ or what?”

“No, it’s just—” Atsumu stops, brow furrowed and dry lips twisted.

“You're actin’ like I’ve never fed you before,” Osamu says. He lowers his arm, knowing he’ll have to wait for Atsumu to get this out first.

“Well, ’s far as I remember, ya haven’t,” Atsumu argues.

“’cept I have,” he says flatly. “How’d you forget our twelfth birthday? Ya wouldn’t stop cryin’ ’cause you were sick and ma got called in to work so we couldn’t have our birthday party. If that wasn’t all, I had to take care of your dumb ass.”

“Wh—that didn’t—I don’t remember that happening.”

“That’s ’cause your memory’s worse than a goldfish’s. Least they remember three months. D’ya even remember what Sakusa-kun said to ya yesterday?”

“Course I do,” he huffs, frowning.

“Oh yeah?” Osamu goads. “What was it?”

Atsumu hesitates. More than a few seconds pass before he pouts and gives up. “Shut up.” he grumbles. “ _Anyway_ , I do remember our twelfth birthday ’cause you hogged all the cake!”

“Ya mean like you did every other birthday?”

“That’s not true and ya know it!” Atsumu squawks, indignant, his arms flailing around. “You were the one always shovin’ your face with food, not me.”

Osamu shrugs and brushes it off. “Food tastes good.” 

Atsumu squints at him with narrowed eyes, but unlike his scrutiny before, it isn’t serious. “You _would_ say that, wouldn’t ya.”

Smiling, Osamu says, “Just eat your soup. It’s gettin’ cold.”

“Wouldn't I be drinkin’ the soup, though?”

“‘Tsumu. I’m gonna choke ya with this spoon.”

“I mean, it _is_ a liquid—wait! No, I take it back, _‘Samu_ —”

Several spoonfuls of soup later (some more forceful than others), Atsumu sinks back into the bed. His skin is less pale and he seems to have regained the hue in his cheeks, but he shakes his head when Osamu goes to feed him again.

“Come on, ‘Tsumu. Just a bit more,” he prods. The bowl is barely half-finished and it’s gone from hot to lukewarm. It’s not nearly enough to replenish Atsumu with how much energy he’s lost in the past few days.

Still, Atsumu protests it and Osamu bites his lip in worry.

“Sorry, ‘Samu,” Atsumu says lowly and he doesn’t meet Osamu’s eyes, his gaze faraway.

When he looks at Osamu properly, it feels like he’s seeing more than what’s there. Osamu is just slumped on the rickety wooden chair from the dining room, hair scruffy, clothes worn down and hanging loosely from his frame, but the way Atsumu’s looking at him reminds him of somewhere else, some _thing_ else. 

The city had been days behind them, the apocalypse still new and fresh. They’d left the familiarity of the buildings they’d grown up around, the alleys and streets they used to know. They had found Sakusa and Suna by that point, and Atsumu had taken the responsibility of leading their small group. 

It had been rough, leaving their home and everything there. Osamu remembers tasting the empty air and looking at the grey, unobstructed skies and having to fill his lungs thrice before he could move. He recalls heavy nights, Atsumu staying out alone, isolated with the burden on his shoulders like knives anchored to the ground. When they couldn’t find proper shelter was the worst for it, Atsumu never seeming to sleep enough. Someone had to keep watch, he’d said. They’d taken it in turns, but Osamu thinks distantly that in the end, Atsumu had ended up out there by himself the most. It was his choice, and Osamu hates that his twin has always felt like the weight rests solely on his back.

He remembers once, it hadn’t been Atsumu’s turn to be the night guard, but despite it, he’d been awake. He’d said he couldn’t sleep, that he’d had a nightmare and he was petrified of Osamu dying. His eyes had been bloodshot and the bags under them were deep purple; bruised, almost.

Osamu had went to him without a second thought.

He remembers Atsumu’s stuttered cries, his muffled words into Osamu’s shirt. How he was so scared, frightened that he was going to get them all killed, terrified of the future and its uncertainties. How he wanted to keep them all safe, how he was trying to be good, trying to be enough for them, but god, he felt so lost, so helpless—a weak child in a world too big and too dangerous.

He could never forget Atsumu’s broken voice, quiet and frail; a desperate plea.

“I’m trying my best,” he had whispered, and Osamu had choked from the way his ribs had tightened.

It’s seared into his memory and the reminder of the pain shakes him back into the present.

“No, don’t apologise,” Osamu says. “It’s… it’s fine. You should probably get some more rest, anyway.” Neither of them mention that it’s all Atsumu has been doing lately.

Atsumu nods and Osamu stands up to leave. He drags the chair back to the dining room and thinks about the half-eaten soup in his hands. They can’t save it; it’d be too risky for anyone else to eat.

With a heavy heart, he throws it away, and his mind drifts to their slowly depleting food supplies.

* * *

“Hey, ‘Samu?” Atsumu’s voice is tired, laden with exhaustion, and his face is grey and sunken, the worst it’s been yet. The small smile playing on his lips is a weak imitation of what it used to be. Osamu’s chest aches, but he doesn’t dare look away.

He can’t, not when every second that passes is another closer to the last. It hurts to think about—hasn’t stopped hurting, even—but Osamu won’t leave his brother alone. He won’t let him be forgotten.

“Yeah?”

“D’ya remember when we was young,” Atsumu starts, speaking slowly; laboured, “how your socks always used to go missin’, and ya could never find a full pair?”

Osamu remembers, of course. His memory isn’t as bad as Atsumu’s when it comes to things like this. Maybe Atsumu had been better at memorisation, getting better test scores and recalling their volleyball set ups, but it had always been Osamu recounting their stories like what actually happened that time both him and Atsumu tried to piggyback on Suna. Atsumu either didn’t remember it correctly, or the events were so embellished it wasn’t even fair to call it the same story anymore.

He supposes he can let Atsumu have it this once.

The life Atsumu wants him to recall is much older than the ones he’s talked about recently. Those had felt like a different world; the scene that plays in his thoughts now feels like he’s watching through rippling water, distant with an impenetrable barrier between his vision and his touch, like it’s an unknown dimension, isolated and separate from reality.

They’re young, so young, and they’re running down the hallway of their old family home. The sun is starting to set, glowing and full of life even as it creeps lower in the sky, and it casts golden light on their backs as they run. Osamu remembers tears in his eyes, filled with the inexplicable sadness only young children could have from the smallest of things. What he was crying over was inconsequential and so, so miniscule.

Compared to this, to the present now—it’s unfathomable, and Osamu swallows uncomfortably around the lump in his throat.

“What about it?” Osamu asks, eyes adrift as he loses himself to simpler times, where summer light filtered through open windows and the air felt warm, as though the idea of home was tangible in every crevice of space, moulding around him like a hug welcoming him back to where he belonged. Where they both belonged.

Not like this.

Not on damp floorboards, Atsumu sitting slumped against the wall, his sickly face, pale skin and weak lungs, his expression, fatigued and sombre, his hands trembling and limp by his sides—not here. 

They do not belong here, and soon, Atsumu will be a stranger to this realm entirely.

Osamu does not think about it—he doesn’t. When he blinks, it’s the humidity from the last dregs of autumn, and Osamu doesn’t cry. There are no tears in his eyes; there can’t be, not when Atsumu is still here, breathing beside him, weathered down and painfully, painfully tired, but he is _here_ and that has to be enough.

It is. It is enough.

The lies taste bitter in his mouth, and he blames it on the mildew that lingers in the corners of old houses and bygone days.

“Was funny watchin’ ya get so worked up all the time,” Atsumu says, and he sounds choked, forced in a way that pulls Osamu’s attention away from his thoughts to look at Atsumu.

His eyes are glossed over, unseeing and distant, and Osamu thinks Atsumu is reliving the past too. Maybe he’ll get the story right, this time.

It might be his last chance to—Osamu tries to stop that train of thought before it can fester and join the rest in crushing him with their weight. It’s too late, though, and the baggage in his heart only drags him down further.

“You’re an ass, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu replies, and he hopes it hides the way his voice is weak too.

Atsumu is silent for a while before he responds, quiet and low, “Yeah. I am.”

It’s honest and truthful and solemn and so unlike Atsumu that Osamu is struck with how much time has passed, how much everything is different, how many things have changed.

He thinks of himself, small and juvenile and barely even old enough to tie his own laces, skidding to a hasty stop in front of their grandmother, ugly tears in his eyes. He thinks of Atsumu, young, faux innocent Atsumu, looking sad that Osamu was crying, even though he was well aware he was the reason for Osamu’s tears.

He recalls his grandmother’s soft words, soft reassurances, her gentle touch and careful navigation of the relationship of fragile minds and what they perceived as the world. He remembers her steadfast cadence as she told him it would be okay, soothing and calming.

Then, it had only been socks. Atsumu had simply stolen socks. 

The consequence had simply been Osamu having mismatched socks for so long that it became far too normal for him to ever go back to matching pairs.

Now—

Now, it’s so much more, and Osamu’s world isn’t a pair of flimsy cotton socks. It isn’t as replaceable, nor is it as easily stolen. He would argue the length of the fabric of time that it’s irreplaceable, in fact. But stolen—to steal his world—it’s not as hard as Osamu had once thought.

Life can flicker out as easily as anything and truths exist to reveal themselves as naïve thoughts.

The world may have ended for everyone else when the apocalypse had begun, but Osamu’s had been okay even then. His world had been by his side even as the one they lived in fell apart. His world was living and breathing and that was enough to pull him through.

Soon, it will be neither, and he’s not ready—he could never be ready. 

His world is going to end soon, and Osamu doesn’t think he can cope; not now, not ever.

“You’re not meant to agree, you ass,” Osamu says. He hates the way the words feel stuck in his throat, the way they fall prey to the barbs in his lungs, how the words crack as he says them.

He doesn’t meet Atsumu’s eyes when he hears his twin shift.

Atsumu has made him cry many times over the course of their lives.

Stealing his socks was one among hundreds. There was the time he’d tripped him at the wrong time and Osamu had had scrapes and grazes everywhere, and he remembers shouting at Atsumu with the taste of salt in his mouth. He remembers a lot of their arguments.

He remembers recent ones, too.

Arguing with Atsumu had never felt so crushing until they’d yelled their way into a shouting match and Atsumu had started coughing, not stopping even as blood dripped from his mouth. 

Osmau had known Atsumu was in danger. He’d been aware with some sort of detached cognisance that his brother was infected, like he’d subconsciously repressed it. It’d only been when he’d seen Atsumu, keeled over, red splattering on old tarmac, that the understanding had come barrelling towards him at full force, that he had realised _Atsumu was going to die._

That night had been difficult, and it wasn’t because of the lingering discomfort left over from the argument.

The ones following it haven’t been easier, despite his hopes.

Something tells Osamu these coming nights will be the hardest.

“Osamu.” Atsumu’s tone is wobbly, and Osamu wishes he had the strength to tell him to shut up. He didn’t even finish his first damn story.

But Osamu is weak, yielding only so for Atsumu; he could ask of him the world, and Osamu would fight gods to put the globe in his palms. It’s not a fact that he flaunts, and nobody except himself knows it. But something about the way Atsumu doesn’t plead, doesn’t implore, just begins as though he knows Osamu would bend the laws of physics to his will if Atsumu so dared ask, shows Osamu that he knows, too.

“I know it’s cliche, but—ya have to be strong, okay. Don’t—” He coughs lightly, but it evolves into something worse; a tornado that ravages his already ripped lungs, pulls life from his cells and the energy from his body. He hunches over, face straining with effort as he struggles to breathe through the blood coating his throat.

Osamu is beside him in an instant, face creased in worry as he kneels, hand tight on Atsumu’s shoulder. He brushes Atsumu’s hair away from his eyes and drags a worn sleeve over his temple where sweat has begun to build. All the while, Osamu swallows the fear that spikes and jumps up from his stomach. It’s hard to look at, to see his brother wither away like this, and Osamu curses every damned thing in the universe for letting this happen.

As his brother hacks up life and death, somewhere in the guts he spills, Osamu knows a part of him is there too. He knows that as he watches Atsumu die—as he’s been watching him die ever since the infection—he is dying too, and one Miya without the other is no Miya at all.

“Don’t interrupt me. I know ya want to,” he rasps, and Osamu wants to interject that he’s the one interrupting himself, but he stays quiet, the desire snuffed out by the coarseness of Atsumu’s unsteady breathing. “Ya have to live longer than this, Osamu. Promise me that. I remember... I remember what I said, back then, but now—now, ya gotta have the happier life. You can’t die like me. You can’t. Ya just—you can’t. Promise me.”

Atsumu’s words are reedy, spoken through strained breath and clenched teeth. Osamu has never heard his brother so distressed. 

It curdles in his stomach.

“Please, ‘Samu,” Atsumu whispers.

It’s desperate, raw, vulnerable. Osamu presses his lips together and tries to stop the hot tears in his eyes from falling.

“Shit,” he murmurs, voice trembling. “Shit, fuck—of course. I promise, ‘Tsumu. I promise.”

He inhales shakily and gathers his twin in his arms, ignoring Atsumu’s blood stained hands and splattered clothes. Simply touching his blood or saliva is dangerous, but Osamu doesn’t care. He can’t care, because today won’t be his brother’s last, but tomorrow could, and the days after definitely will.

By the end of this week, Osamu will be singular in nature, bereft and bereaved. When time passes and takes Atsumu with it, Osamu will be lost, nauseated with the deepest sense of _wrong_ , one he’s never known the feeling of. When he has to bury his brother and lay him to rest, nothing will be okay because they’re twins and they were born together—they lived together, fought together and fucking promised each other. They promised that they’d still fight to win their bet, to see who would be happier in life even if it was a dumb thing Atsumu said during an even dumber argument that, in hindsight, means nothing now.

They promised it’d be a competition and they need both of them for that, for fuck’s sake.

They’re both so young still, with so many years supposed to be ahead of them. They’re meant to survive this damned apocalypse and tell their grandkids horror stories from when the world collectively went to shit. They’re supposed to die together after living fulfilled lives despite the probable trauma from surviving a whole entire zombie fucking apocalypse. It’s not meant to go like this. Not where Atsumu leaves him first, where he dies alone and Osamu is left behind.

Atsumu can’t leave. He _can’t_.

Atsumu’s arms tighten around him, hard enough to squeeze the air from his lungs, and it’s clear he doesn’t want to leave either. Osamu pulls him closer and buries his face in his neck, trying to quell the tremors wracking his figure.

Atsumu has already stretched the limits, given as long as he’s had. He’s sick and ill and dying, and the infection has run rampant. The virus has spread from his injuries and clawed its way up his body; soon it will devour him whole.

If Atsumu was simply sick, this wouldn’t be as hard. 

But general terminal illness doesn’t need a gun and it doesn’t come with the oppressive, stomach-churning guilt and responsibility that means you have to kill your brother before he devolves into a mangled inhuman mess.

They’ve tried as hard as they can, dragged it out as long as possible, but when Osamu leans back and looks at Atsumu’s red, sunken eyes, they both know that time is up.

“It’ll be okay,” Atsumu mumbles, sad even as he tries to smile. He wipes Osamu’s tears from his cheeks and cups his jaw with his hands. They don’t look away from each other. “You’ll be okay.”

“I won’t,” he says, quieter than a whisper. If he speaks any louder, he’ll fracture and he’ll break and he won’t stop. “It’s not—you can’t—”

“I hafta,” Atsumu says. “I’m sorry, ‘Samu.” He lets go of Osamu’s face.

“I don’t want ya to _go_ , Atsumu,” he sobs. “You can’t—can’t leave me here by myself.”

“This ain’t the first day of primary school,” Atsumu jokes lightly, but Osamu can see the wet shine to his eyes too.

Death is not controllable by human hands, but soon its power will be forced into Osamu’s and he feels like his heart is being ripped through broken ribs and torn muscle and he doesn’t—he can’t—breathe.

“I can’t say goodbye,” Osamu chokes out, throat tight.

“Ya don’t have to,” Atsumu offers, gentle, comforting. “Not tonight.”

Not tonight, Osamu takes, but what about tomorrow? What about the day after? His life after?

Atsumu must see the growing panic in his eyes because he hugs him close again. Osamu goes willingly and tries to stifle the anguish threatening to spill from his being. 

Osamu knows the end comes, whether wanted or not.

Before it arrives, he’ll savour this moment. He’ll press Atsumu’s silhouette into his own, bury his hand in his hair and remember what it’s like to be next to his twin; to feel the dregs of life still battle in him, to hear his fighting breaths, to cry on his shoulder and Atsumu on his.

He’ll savour it, and burn it into his memory.

Because come tomorrow’s nightfall, this will be all he has left.

* * *

The morning sun barely creeps over the horizon; they wanted as much time as possible before having to set out, but Osamu has to fight the desire to lay down and never move. His mind is an anchor, heavy and loaded and keeping him locked in place.

Suna and Sakusa have already said their goodbyes. They’ve given Osamu time, but it doesn’t feel like enough—no amount of days, weeks, months or years would be enough when every second without him feels like an eternity.

As the heavens open up and let slithers of light through dull clouds, they highlight the ground in front of him. The mud is shoddily pushed around, uneven and easy to spot among the grass. It’s saturated with rainwater and leftover droplets hang off leaves and blades of green. Osamu blinks away flashes of red.

Birds circle around in the sky as the sky fades from soft oranges to gentle blues, and Osamu inhales deeply. The memories of metal in his hand, the phantom kick of recoil against his palm, the wetness of his cheeks, looking into eyes of pained acceptance—he won’t forget.

In the darkness of night, maybe years from now if he survives long enough, Osamu knows they’ll come back to him. He’ll wake up, shaking and terrified and with fear lodged in his throat, and it’ll feel like that day all over again.

He knows they’ll revisit tonight, tomorrow and likely every day after. If he’d slept last night, he’d have been trapped then, too.

It’s hard to reconcile with the picture of serenity in front of him, but the memory is engraved in his head, and Osamu won’t forget.

For now though, he’ll try to push it from his mind and drink in the cold air. As the sun rises and light washes over the world, he will try to meet with peace and let it take him. He’ll breathe in lungfuls of oxygen and remind himself of words said barely two days ago.

He won’t be coming back here for a long, long time.

He might not come back at all.

As of this moment, there isn’t time to rest, and Osamu needs to keep moving. Most of society is slow and undead, and the globe is spinning faster than it did in the past; every second spent unalert is one closer to an untimely death. The ebb and flow of the universe waits for no one and it has no sympathy for the fallen.

“You better wait for me,” Osamu says to him, quietly.

When he turns to leave, the wind ruffles his hair. It feels a lot like familiar calloused fingers, and the hint of a sombre smile drifts over his face.

Even as half of a whole, Osamu reminds himself: he promised him he'd live.

**Author's Note:**

> there is a part two planned that one's happier i swear i can write things that aren’t sad angst pls believe me dsjkfhdskjfjs


End file.
